


object of admiration

by consumptive_sphinx



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, M/M, Manipulation, Melkor is a creep in this fic, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-15
Updated: 2017-12-15
Packaged: 2019-02-15 01:56:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13020789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/consumptive_sphinx/pseuds/consumptive_sphinx
Summary: When he was younger he enjoyed the attention, enjoyed the secondhand compliments people gave to Aulë about how beautiful his son was, how clever, how intelligent, how skilled. Now, at fourteen, Mairon feels less like an object of admiration and more like an object: a trophy, perhaps, or a medal, a gleaming golden symbol of Aulë’s achievement rather than his own.(Mairon is in over his head, and insists he can handle it, really. He's lying to himself, but he'll hardly admit it.)





	object of admiration

Mairon is never anything but bored at his father’s parties. 

When he was younger he enjoyed the attention, enjoyed the secondhand compliments people gave to Aulë about how beautiful his son was, how clever, how intelligent, how skilled. Now, at fourteen, he feels less like an object of admiration and more like an object: a trophy, perhaps, or a medal, a gleaming golden symbol of Aulë’s achievement rather than his own. 

His parents have boring friends with boring children who speak of boring things, and Mairon is no longer flattered by their admiration, and so he is bored — or he would be, if it were not for the man he cannot keep his eyes from following. 

Melkor. There are rumors of Melkor in this stupid, myopic town, things spoken of in whispers in school hallways and spoken around in quiet voices at dinner tables, but Mairon puts little stake in rumors. Melkor is _fascinating,_ and he watches Mairon like Mairon is the most impressive thing in the room. 

The other guests edge around Melkor, their eyes darting away from his face and their conversations falling silent when they have to pass by him. Mairon watches him carefully, in his peripheral vision; it wouldn't do to have anyone notice how interested he is by the man. Melkor is older than his father, after all, more than three times Mairon’s age, and Mairon has no interest at all in becoming another rumor. 

Mairon waits until Aulë has finished showing him off to look Melkor directly in the eyes, turn to the woman he’s talking to (Vána, a dancer who wears glittery green dresses that make her look like an actor in costume) and say “I should really go finish my essay,” and head upstairs. 

Melkor, of course, does not follow him. Mairon is almost disappointed.

 

 

“He’s older than me, Mai. I know you’re very mature but please, don’t be stupid about this.” 

“I know, Dad. I’m not going to do anything stupid, he’s just interesting.” 

 

 

Classes are boring. Mairon isn't old enough yet that they'll let him take metal shop, freshmen don't take history, he's a grade behind his actual knowledge in math, and he can't stand English or PE. 

He reads in class whenever his teachers let them, holds a phone under the desk when they won't. Ignores his classmates; they only want answers from him, not anything he wants to give, and it's not like they're interesting enough for him to care whether they like him or not. 

Melkor is the metal shop teacher. It's half of why Mairon wants to take the class so much: however much Mairon hides his interest, Melkor is fascinating. But for now Mairon calls it enough to sit in the metal shop at lunch, in the relative quiet away from other students, and make himself familiar with the space. 

They don't usually talk — Melkor might be fascinating to Mairon but at fourteen Mairon is old enough to know that of course that doesn't make him fascinating to Melkor, but Melkor has never seemed to mind having Mairon in his classroom. 

It starts on a rainy day, when Melkor stands in front of the table Mairon has claimed and makes conversation - asks if there’s a reason Mairon eats here instead of outside. Mairon tries to deflect, explains that he’d rather be in here with Melkor than out there with other teenagers, blushes a little more than he was intending to but Melkor is so close, he’s _right there in front of him,_ and Mairon has wanted this for so long. 

“Is there anyone you're not bored by?” Melkor says, a little bit teasing, but it's more grown up than when adults ask him if he's noticed any _girls_ yet so Mairon nods instead of being irritated. 

“…yes,” he says. He's sure he's blushing. 

Melkor leans forward, forward, and Mairon wants to lean back and wants to lean closer and stays exactly where he is and smiles, a little shy, a little uncertain, into Melkor’s grin. 

 

 

“So you've never dated.” 

“No, never.” 

“Good.” 

“Mm?” 

“Someone as gorgeous as you shouldn't be having bad sex, Mairon.” 

“…oh.” 

“So you’re interested, then.” 

“Of _course.”_

 

 

It’s half an hour before Melkor arrives at Mairon’s room — “I’m sorry to keep you waiting,” he says, and it sounds like he means it, “I couldn’t get away, people kept looking sideways at me and I didn’t want to skulk too obviously.” Mairon laughs and kisses him. 

“I’ve missed you,” Mairon says between kisses. “It’s been — _mm,_ too long, since I saw you —” Melkor lays a line of kisses up his neck and Mairon’s voice breaks into a long, breathy moan. 

Melkor makes Mairon feel admired again. It is a childish thing to admit, and to Melkor he would of course never admit it, but it is true, and relevant. Melkor’s attention focused on him is like a spotlight, like a display lamp on a sculpture in an art museum. 

When Mairon has it, he feels like a masterpiece, like art.


End file.
